


Silence is...Golden?

by QueenNeehola



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1865307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenNeehola/pseuds/QueenNeehola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lahar just can't get any work done when Doranbolt's around, so he takes matters into his own hands.  But it doesn't really work...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence is...Golden?

**Author's Note:**

> More gen than slashy, I think.

“Yo, La—”  The final syllable is cut off without warning even as Doranbolt’s lips finish forming the shape of the word.

He stops three steps into Lahar’s office and puts a hand to his neck, pressing down his Adam’s apple lightly, wondering at his sudden apparent loss of voice.  His throat isn’t sore, nor can he remember straining his vocal chords recently – he’s not one for shouting a lot.

 

He tries Lahar’s name again as he resumes his paces towards the man himself, who is currently seated at his desk at the back of the room, dutifully swishing pen across paper as always.  His violet eyes had flickered up to glance at Doranbolt when he had first entered, but had since resumed following the words he was writing across the page.

It’s no good – Doranbolt’s tongue settles between his teeth and then curls up to tap gently at the roof of his mouth as he attempts again to say Lahar’s name, but his voice remains stubbornly absent.  His lips purse together as he tries to ask what the hell is going on, but still he finds he can’t make a sound.

 

Having reached the front of Lahar’s desk now, and feeling fairly irritated at his inability to talk, he swipes a spare pen from the (neatly kept) pot Lahar keeps them in and a fresh sheet of paper from the (perfectly aligned) stack to Lahar’s right.

He scrawls a blue-inked message in capital letters: _What did you do!?_

Lahar’s eyes move to the message and then back to his own words on the paper before him.  He prefers black ink.  “Runes,” he answers simply.

Doranbolt arches one eyebrow, and then simply draws a question mark below his original sentence, needing more of an explanation than Lahar’s one-word answer had provided.

“Runes,” Lahar says again after a moment, but this time pauses to start a new paragraph before elaborating.  “In the doorway.  To keep _distractions_ quiet.”

The emphasis on the word _distractions_ makes Doranbolt’s eyes narrow accusingly.  _I heard you talking to one of your subordinates 10 minutes ago_ , he writes.

“He wasn’t a distraction.”

_Neither am I!_

“That is a matter of opinion.”

Doranbolt huffs silently and sticks the end of the pen in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on it as he contemplates his reply.

“Don’t do that, it’s unhygienic,” Lahar scolds without even looking up.  Doranbolt just bites down on the pen harder, making sure the other man can hear the _click_ of his teeth against the plastic.

He’s sure he sees Lahar’s eyebrow twitch slightly at his actions, and he smirks as an idea begins to form in his mind.

 

No less than fifteen minutes later, Lahar is forced to undo the runes, because compared to finger-drumming, pen-clicking and _incessant fidgety shuffling_ , the sound of Doranbolt’s voice as he holds what is usually a rather one-sided conversation really isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
